The Punishment of Our Skin on Skin Contact

He brushes up next to me as we walk down the street, and I pay it no mind because I do not have the luxury of stopping and thinking about what touch means at 2pm on a Tuesday. Instead I have to close my eyes for a just a moment to regain composure and keep on walking. I cannot stop, because if I stop then I will start thinking, and somewhere in the back of my mind the collision of the skin on his hand with the skin on my arm, which so gentle, so gingerly, so casual and uncouth – those few seconds of touching have initiated the fantastical riot of some new movie plot that ends up within seconds with visions of him and me fucking. This is just how it goes.

And this is just who I am. I am that type of person. I am the type of girl who can feel sagas of sex unfold on her skin any time any other person deigns to make physical contact with me. A few inches of tenderness and suddenly I am reeling backwards into some self scripted short story filled with exactly the way that I would take off my clothes slowly and kick back on the bed if only he would fuck me. If his hand grabs me roughly just around the arm, I can translate that touch into fucking and choking. The quick brush of a few fingers like his hands in my hair while he’s fucking me from behind. Because every time a man touches me, I am punished with a vision of what fucking must be like.

But I can’t do this. This can’t happen to me every time someone touches me. Every time there is the alchemical reaction of my skin on some skin, because this is painful. This is punishing, these constant reel to reel movies of me in some pornographic position, splayed out in my mind beneath some new man. Every man. Me beneath every man I ever see all the time every day. I can’t live like this.

And I can’t walk around every day with some new sex scene unfolding in every moment. Every glimpse of eye contact jettisoning me away from reality and into some dungeon where my desires are cataloged according to the type of sexual fantasy is coursing through my veins right now. I can’t look every man in the eye and let him see these thoughts as they whip around the back of my brain while I barely hold it together with normal, decent conversation that is in no way hypersexualized but instead chaste and modest. This is too hard to do. This is too much to ask. I am a monster on the edge of an orgasm within every social interaction I have ever had, and it is bleeding me dry.